


April, 1981

by JJK



Series: Life, Interrupted [4]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, The Time Traveler's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, M/M, time traveler's wife au, young!Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 04:02:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJK/pseuds/JJK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire sensed something was different. He stepped forwards, bare feet on the crumbly earth, and accidentally broke a twig. It snapped loudly and the blue eyes of the little blonde boy lying in the grass beyond the tree line snapped up alert and attentive. He was resting on his stomach, legs wiggling in the air behind him as he scribbled with concentration in a large sketch pad with large crayons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	April, 1981

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to [Kim](http://combeferree.tumblr.com) for helping to make sure this chapter made sense :)

_April, 1981 (Enjolras is 5, Grantaire is 34)_  


Grantaire sensed something was different. He stepped forwards, bare feet on the crumbly earth, and accidentally broke a twig. It snapped loudly and the blue eyes of the little blonde boy lying in the grass beyond the tree line snapped up alert and attentive. He was resting on his stomach, legs wiggling in the air behind him as he scribbled with concentration in a large sketch pad with large crayons.  


He was young, probably the youngest Grantaire had ever seen him. Actually, considering the lack of clothes piled neatly in the corner of the picnic blanket, this probably _was_ the youngest Grantaire would ever see him. He hesitated; this wasn’t going to be an easy conversation.  


Still, it had to be done. In many ways, it had already been done.  


He stepped forwards again, making sure the branches of the trees were adequately covering him before calling out a bland, “hello.”  


Enjolras bolted upright. “Hello?” his voice was high and innocent, wide eyes darting from under soft flaxen curls that brushed against his forehead.  


“Hi.”  


In a flash, Enjolras had removed his shoe and thrown it into the trees with surprising accuracy. It hit Grantaire squarely on the forehead. He managed to bite back the stream of curses that threatened to explode from him and settled instead for an unsatisfying, “Ow.”  


“You shouldn’t throw things at people,” Grantaire said dryly, pressing a hand to the gash on his forehead.  


“You shouldn’t be in my meadow.” Enjolras replied with far too much accusation and authority for a five year old to possess. “Are you a ruffian?”  


“A ruffian?” Grantaire laughed. “No.”  


“Then what are you?”  


“I’m Grantaire.” He said, unhelpfully, but _fuck_ ; how was he supposed to explain why he was here?  


Enjolras cocked his head to one side, and stared into the trees for a moment before replying, “I’m Enjolras. Why are you hiding in the trees?”  


“Because I don’t have any clothes,” he said honestly. He didn’t expect Enjolras to begin cackling with laughter. He was forgetting that, as a five year old, he’d have a five year old’s sense of humour.  


“No clothes!” he guffawed.  


“Yes, it’s hilarious.” Grantaire was unprepared for this encounter today. He was hungover and tightly wound thanks to Enjolras being at a meeting that Grantaire was absolutely, under no circumstances allowed to accompany him too. He’d been trying to relax with a book when he’d slipped away in the middle of a fucking sentence. No, dealing with a five year old Enjolras, who was rolling around with laughter at the idea of a strange ruffian with no clothes, whilst trying to come up with a non-creepy explanation for why he was there, was not his idea of an afternoon well spent.  


“Why don’t you have any clothes?”  


“I lost them.”  


Which was obviously the wrong thing to say, as Enjolras began laughing again.  


“That was silly!” he told Grantaire, breathless, finally bringing his eyes back to the tree line.  


“Could I borrow your blanket?” Grantaire asked, painfully aware of that fact that he was naked. Enjolras considered for a moment before standing up and bundling the blanket into a ball which he threw into the trees.  


Jesus, was he this forthcoming with all strangers he came across?  


“You really shouldn’t speak to strangers, you know,” Grantaire said, wrapping the blanket round his waist like you would a towel.  


“Oh,” he sat up straight, like he was just remembering. “But you’re not a stranger, you’re Grantaire.”  


Which was so accidentally accurate it drew a flash of a grin from Grantaire.  


Wiping the smile off his face, in an effort to appear less creepy, he stooped to pick up the shoe and stepped out of the trees. He saw Enjolras’ eyes widen at the sight of him. Probably in fear. Grantaire was aware that his hair was wild and sticking up at every angle, and he hadn’t bothered shaving that morning.  


“Just because you know someone’s name doesn’t mean they’re not a stranger.” He said, handing Enjolras back his shoe. “And just because I _say_ I’m not a ruffian,” he smiled, using Enjolras’ own ridiculous word, no doubt stolen from a bed time story. “Doesn’t mean that I’m not.”  


“You’re bleeding!” Enjolras gushed and Grantaire realised with a sinking feeling that Enjolras hadn’t been listening to a word he’d said. So much for trying to impart wisdom, or life lessons, or whatever the hell.  


“Did I…?” he looked horrified.  


“It’s alright,” Grantaire wiped at the gash on his forehead it didn’t feel all that bad. It probably looked worse than it was. “But that’s why you shouldn’t throw things at people. Unless they really, really deserve it,” he added, feeling wicked. He was Grantaire; he was supposed to be a bad influence.  


“I’ll go get Dita. She knows what to do when I scrape myself.” He was already preparing to run back to the house. Grantaire had to reach out to grab his hand.  


“No, it’s nothing, honestly,” and, Jesus, there was no way to make this sound not creepy was there? “It would be best if you didn’t tell your parents.”  


“Dita’s not my mother,” Enjolras said, like that made any difference.  


“I know. She’s your house keeper. Alanna is your mother.”  


“How do you…?”  


Grantaire decided to go for complete honesty. He’d never really been any good at lying to Enjolras; apparently five year old Enjolras was no different.  


“I’m a time traveller.”  


Enjolras looked unconvinced. Grantaire scrabbled for the right thing to say. What could he say? Enjolras had blatantly refused to reveal anything about their first meeting because, to quote, “that would be cheating.” He had apologised for the shoe though, not that it had made Grantaire anymore prepared.  


“A time traveller? They’re not real.” He said without conviction.  


“Sure they are. How do you think Santa Clause delivers all those presents at Christmas?”  


“He doesn’t. He’s not real.”  


“Of course not.”  


Of course Enjolras would be too smart to believe in Father Christmas. The man who sincerely believed that he could bring about a change in the world, believed that there was actually good out there somewhere, believed in life, liberty, freedom and the future – was too cynical to believe in Father Christmas. There was logic in there somewhere, but Grantaire couldn’t see it.  


Maybe there was nothing to be said. Maybe it was something that had shown. What had Enjolras said about his disappearing party tick? _Magical_. All he had to do was stop Enjolras from running to the house long enough to see him disappear. That shouldn’t be too difficult.  


He spotted the sketch book and reached for it.  


“What are you working on?” he asked, but got no answer. Enjolras was still looking at him with a strange, and utterly _Enjolras_ look.  


Grantaire pulled the book towards himself, expecting to see a picture; a drawing of a family of a unicorn or something, but then when had Enjolras ever been into drawing? No, he wasn’t surprised to see a list, scribbled into obscurity, but a list none-the-less. Grantaire wasn’t sure what it was supposed to be a list of, to be honest he didn’t think he wanted to know. Probably kindergarten teachers who should be disposed of, or reform measures to be enacted in the canteen, or something ridiculous. He flipped the page and began to sketch absently as he tried to figure out what to say. Before he really realised what his fingers were doing, he noticed that Enjolras’ golden curls had sprung to life on the page, drawn with obscenely thick and waxy crayons that made it impossible to shade properly.  


“You’re good.” Enjolras said quietly, his searching look forgotten in favour of sitting by Grantaire’s elbow and leaning over to see the page. Personal space and generally accepted social norms had never been Enjolras’ forte, which is why he didn’t find it strange that he was half clambering on Grantaire to get a better look. “I can’t draw,” he said simply.  


“But I bet you’re good at other things,”  


“Dita says I’m good at talking.”  


Grantaire tried to diffuse his chuckle.  


“Mother says I’m good at arguing.”  


Grantaire stopped drawing and turned to Enjolras. He could tell from his tone that it was often offered as chastisement rather than praise.  


“Arguing can be good.” He replied carefully. “So long as you argue for the right reasons.” He was being an awful hypocrite, knowing full well he often argued for the sake of an argument. But that was beside the point. Enjolras was staring at him with big blue eyes, mouth slightly agape. Grantaire had to seriously resist the urge to boop his nose.  


He finished the sketch, doodle really, with a final flourish and added a small R in the corner for good measure.  


He knew it wouldn’t be long now, already the familiar pressure was building. He flicked to a clean page and wrote a date from memory in his best, most legible handwriting, drawing a calendar square and a clock face to accompany it.  


“I’m going to leave now, but I’ll be back on this date, at this time – when the clock looks like that, okay? Can you be down here to meet me, and can you bring some clothes?”  


“I can try,” Enjolras said earnestly. He took the sketchpad back from Grantaire and flicked back to the drawing. “Will you draw me another picture?”  


“Next time,” Grantaire promised.  


He could feel himself begin to ebb away.  


“I’m your very own time travelling artist.”  


He dissolved into thin air as wide eyed disbelief swept across Enjolras’ face.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://trenchcoatsandtimetravel.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Edit:  
> Look at this adorable [artwork](http://trenchcoatsandtimetravel.tumblr.com/post/59134915117/lestardisables-im-sorry-that-this-is-just-a) drawn by [lestardisables](http://lestardisables.tumblr.com) for this chapter!!


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